Plan B
by ReadyFred-ReadyGeorge
Summary: 'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Purveyors of Magical Mischief of Ministerial Sizes, since 1996' A little one-off idea that I've had for a while, rated T for Fred's mouth! Part 1 of the 'Portraits' Series.


_Whew, that took longer than expected, needed a break from 'Amegakure' in order for my mind to formulate more ideas for the story, which I have now done. I had this idea playing around for a while, and I meant to do it before 'Cure for Nightmares' but I forgot, and then got caught up doing 'Ame' and it went from there. I needed at least 1 Harry Potter fanfic to live up to my username, so here it is: Enjoy!_

Plan B

_Diagon Alley, April 29__th__: 2018._

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes hadn't changed much in the last 20 years. The stock had changed around with every season, as its owners developed new and innovative ways to get Britain's teenage wizarding population out of their studies. The draperies had changed once or twice, whenever Mrs Weasley's near-incessant nagging about 'freshening up the place,' managed to penetrate her sons' thick skulls. There had even been another floor added to the building. The latter having caused the shop owners no end of fun, when they decided to construct the build near the Burrow, and then charmed the completed floor to fly all the way from Devon to land neatly on top of the joke shop, giving more than 100 muggles panic attacks when they saw half a house amiably floating past them overhead. But there was one thing that had not changed in two decades. One thing that never would change. The two portraits of the shop's original co-owner.

Fred Weasley's face stared jovially out of his frame at his twin brother, rolling his eyes as the latter fussed over a mountain of paperwork on his desk.

'Come on Georgie, take a break, you know you can't get as much done as you used to, what with your old age and all.'

George Weasley looked up at his ink twin opposite him and smirked. 'Since when has forty been particularly old Fred?' said the middle-aged ginger man, stroking the fiery stubble that he hadn't gotten around to shaving yet. Fred mirrored him from within his painting. Both of the renderings of George's departed twin had been bewitched so that the image aged at the same rate George did. It wasn't the same as having your other half back from the dead. But at least when he was in the store he didn't have to finish his own sentences.

'Since now, you're an old git George, you must accept it.' Countered Fred, voice laded with sarcastic colloquialism. Both brothers laughed heartily, be it in death or life, the Weasley twins knew no other language but jokes, swearing and laughter. George finally relented and cast his pen aside, it was about time for Ron to do something useful for a change. As if reading his mind, Fred spoke again, cocking an artistically rendered eyebrow. 'And how is my army of nephews and nieces getting along I wonder, we haven't had a letter in ages!'

George grinned, 'No, but me and Ron did run into Hermione this afternoon when I went out for lunch, for once I wasn't a gooseberry.' Fred sat up a bit straighter in the armchair that the artist had painted for him. It had been based off the armchairs of the Gryffindor common room. When one must spend his afterlife within a painting, one should at least be comfortable.

'Do tell.'

'Apparently Harry and Ginny were called into Hogwarts to speak to McGonagall the other day, because James and Al blew up a row of toilets.'

'Gee dear brother, now who does that sound like?' Grinned Fred.

'Don't know what you're talking about.' Replied George wistfully, before carrying on. 'Rosie's apparently on track to ace her end of year exams, if we ever needed proof that she's got her mother's brain, there it is.'

'Of course she does, Ron _has _no brain.'

'I heard that you pile of...!' Came Ron's muffled cry from downstairs on the shop floor, the floorboards thankfully providing natural censorship. Fred excused himself to briefly visit his other painting. Unlike the grand, life-size portrait of Fred that hung in George's office on the first floor. The other painting was somewhat less grandiose. It had been inexpensive and wasn't particularly big (Fred had insisted that George didn't burn too big a hole in his pocket after he had the first one made) but it hung in a very carefully chosen place. Directly adjacent to the shop door, giving Fred a good vantage point to assist shoppers, and to swear dramatically at anybody who tried to steal anything. Barely a second after leaving, George heard his twin employ a significant quantity of his foul mouthed arsenal against his younger brother, who responded in kind. In fact, had the shop door not opened at that point, the two could have literally turned the air blue.

The moment the door clicked open, and the crisp spring evening breeze wafted in, Fred darted out of his second frame, and Ron did his best to make himself look busy, and tried to ignore the latent echo of the 'f-word' bouncing quietly around the room. George was about to proceed downstairs to greet his latest customers, when Fred appeared back in the office.

'2 blokes and a lady, ministry by the looks of them.' Wheezed Fred. George nodded.

'Improper use of magic office?' he replied, Fred shrugged and sat his painted behind back in his painted chair. George straightened his tie and ran his hands through his mid-length flaming hair. Checking his reflection in the mirror behind his desk when Ron burst in, panting.

'Improper use of magic...downstairs...want...to see you...' Ron managed, between lungfulls of air. His old war-wounds from his Auror career made it difficult to exert himself in any way, even running up the stairs. George put an arm around his shoulder and guided his brother into his armchair. When Ron had gotten some much needed oxygen into his system, George asked him what the Officials had been after.

'They say they're following up a lead on some illegal whatever in our products.'

George grinned widely, like the Cheshire cat at Christmas. Yes, he had smuggled in some products illegally, because wizarding customs would have had a fit. Yes, those products were stashed secretly in the store without Ron's knowledge, but there was no way that the ministry was ever going to find them, without George's prior permission of course. And that would only come if comedy permitted it.

George turned to his dead twin mounted on the wall. 'Show our dear guests up, won't you Freddie?'

Fred turned and exited his frame briefly, whist George finished making himself look smart. If he was going to quietly laugh in the face of authority, he was going to do it done up to the nines. A few minutes later, the Ministry officials entered the office. The first two were tall, stocky men in their late fifties, one bald, the other with a buzz cut. It was looking at Russian Prime Ministers, these men were quite clearly the brawn, but without the brains of the Auror office. The final member of the inquisitive trio was a short woman with a pink dress and receeding blonde hair, clutching a clipboard firmly in a gnarled let hand. George fought to hide his bitter flashbacks.

'My name is Helena Umbridge, you are George Weasley, am I correct.' Said the squat woman tartly, scribbling on her clipboard without looking at any of the Weasleys, Ron shot a furtive glance at his brother that George did not fail to catch.

'You don't have a relative who used to work in the ministry do you?' replied George, by way of acknowledgement.

'Ah, so you know Aunt Dolores?' said Helena, looking up at him for the first time. The woman looked every bit like her aunt, even down to the sickly sweet smile that could probably kill a puppy if aimed at one. George visibly shuddered. Looking at this woman sent tingles of nagging discomfort through him. The kind that never quite hurts as much as instantaneous agony, but lasts for so much longer. George rubbed the back of his left hand, instinctively covering scars that he did not have.

'We were _acquainted_ with her,' replied George, doing his utmost to hide his inherent loathing of this woman's family. Helena clearly took no notice and moved the conversation swiftly on to the point, in typical 'Ministry of Magic, No Nonsense' style.

'The Ministry has received intelligence..' _God she even talks like her!_ Thought Ron, every word she spoke grating nails within his brain, 'That the proprietors of _'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes'_' intoning the name to make it sound as much like 'Scum' as she could without breaking the English language. 'purchased exactly 1-and-a-half metric tonnes of Venezuelan Troll Dung, and 1 Arabian Apparition Carpet, from one Mundungus Fletcher precisely seven days ago.'

'And what, pray tell, would it matter either way?' questioned Fred from his spot on the wall, causing Umbridge and her goons to turn around for the briefest of moments, acknowledging his presence for the first time. The woman's lip quivered slightly, turning pointedly upwards to resume the sickening smile of her namesake.

'I was not aware that it was the business of _Portraits _to delve into _Wizarding _affairs.' Fred's face contorted into a look of purest rage, as though the artist had returned momentarily to splash a barrel of red paint across his masterpiece. It took all of George's willpower to keep his face neutral, nobody insulted his brother and got away with it, especially not on his property, Ministry hag or not.

'It would _matter_, because Mundungus Fletcher, so the Ministry understands it, imported said items illegally. We are here to investigate, and as the case is likely to be, confiscate these items.'

'And what makes you so sure that we _did_ buy something Mundungus pinched?' replied Fred, voice dripping with aggravation. This time Umbridge did not even turn, she just twitched slightly, as though there were an annoying buzz in her ear. She spoke with a courteousness that was even more vile than the foulest of slang.

'Mr Weasley, this is the second time I have had to remind you. The Ministry has appointed me to investigate the illegal activities of _Wizards._ As such, as far as myself and the Ministry of Magic are concerned, you have no place within this conversation.'

George held his calm, barely, but Fred snapped.

'I AM A WIZARD! I'M FRED BLOODY WEASLEY!'

'No, you a _portrait_ of a _deceased_ Wizard, you have no magic, you have no body, you are a drawing, nothing more.' A vein had popped in Umbridge's temple, but a much larger one had exploded within George's. If the Ministry was going to play dirty, it picked the wrong people to tick off.

'Madam, I would very much like to prove to you the legal quality of all of our shop's goods, if you would just follow my younger brother down to the shop floor, I will be with you in a few moments.' George fought to enunciate every word without dropping hideous levels of swearing into them. Ron looked up at his brother with a look of shock and horror, it was a shame that his younger brother wasn't privy to George's thoughts, but there was no way of telling Ron that he hadn't taken the insult lying down. Not without alerting the officials. With a goblin-esque smile from Umbridge, and a resigned slouch from Ron, the youngest Weasley boy led the Ministry goons down the stairs.

Once they were out of earshot, George rounded on his inked twin, raising an eyebrow. A look that always meant trouble of the most humorous variety.

'Plan B?' intoned George. Fred shuddered, but failed to suppress a grin.

'Disgusting, but necessary.'

'Do it then.'

With a wink and a nod, Fred walked aimiably out of his portrait. George straightened his tie again. Turth be told, they _had_ illegally imported the dung and the carpet. But what had 's tiny mind, was that they had imported it knowing they would be found out eventually, but George hadn't anticipated that it'd be this soon, or exactly who would have come knocking. When an Umbridge made trouble, it required a rebellion worthy of the former DA.

As he descended the final steps, he saw that Umbridge's accomplices were standing mute on the carpet by the front, door, awaiting instructions, eyeing up the shop and it's owners, alive and dead, making no attempt to hide their wands. George had his hidden behind his back, and while Umbridge was inquisitively probing Ron about the contents of their Love potions, George gave his wand an un-noticeable flick, causing a jar of decoy detonators on the shelf nearest Fred's painting to fall off, hitting the ground dramatically, the contents skittering across the panelled floor. Umbridge bent down to pick one up, examining the little black deivce menacingly, like an alligator savours the look of terror on it's prey's face. However, said menacing inquisition took her into the direct path of Fred's portrait.

Umbridge barely had time to notice the look of pure loathing and unadulterated mischief on Fred's face, before the departed Weasley's mouth opened impossibly wide, and projectile vomited 1.5 metric tonnes of Venezualan Troll Dung at her. The mass of faeces hit the toad-like woman with the force of a shotgun blast, sending her careening into her cronies, pummelling them all to the floor, soaked to the skin in what used to be a troll's breakfast. 'Plan B' or 'Plan Bleeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!' as the twins officially named it, was a success.

Ron was gagging on the smell, it was a visceral assault on his nostrils, he hadn't been privy to the plan, as such, he'd had no time to stopper his nose with Magic, the lanky ginger wizard ran pell-mell for the bathroom at the back of the store, as though he'd suddenly been given a dose of steroids. George, by contrast was standing nonchalantly, grinning like a madman, while Fred was roaring with laughter, shaking so hard it looked like the paper would tear in twain. Evidently George's bewitching the sacrosanct painting of his departed twin had been worth it.

'Obliviate' stammered George, with barely suppressed laughter, as he aimed his wand squarely between Helena Umbridge's beady, crossed eyes. As the evil woman's eyes went blank, slumping into a dream-like oblivion, George repeated the process on her henchmen. It was convenient that the latter two had been standing on the carpet by the door when Umbridge joined them at high speed. They had been after an Arabian Apparition Carpet, so it was only fair that they got one. It worked the same way as Floo Powder did, except you did not, necessarily need to be the one teleporting. George tapped the carpet gingerly with the tip of his wand.

'The Ministry of Magic' enunciated the ginger wizard, and with a puff of dramatic pink smoke and the scent of expensive Syrian perfume, the charmed, middle-Eastern throw-rug vanished, taking it's three occupants on a one way trip to an official suspension.

'That stuff tastes horrible, alive or dead.' Said Fred, though judging by his roaring belly laugh, he wasn't complaining much.

'Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, purveyors of magical mischief of Ministerial sizes, since 1996!' said George, a satisfied smirk on his face, which failed to drop when he added. 'Fumigating this place is going to be hell.'

'Make Ron do it?' questioned Fred.

'Way ahead of you.' Replied George, already halfway to the door.

_So there you are, sorry it's late, homework and a desperate need for sleep have been thorns in my creative side for the past few days. It doesn't feel as well written than 'Amegakure', (of which I am starting chapter 4, just as soon as I've had a cup of tea, at time of writing) but My Username is 'ReadyFred-ReadyGeorge,' If I was only going to write Naruto fics, Id've called myself something different. Please review, positive or negative is always welcome._

_RFRG_


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